Okay, it's four AM and I don't write poetry...or songs...and where, you might well ask, is the next chapter of The Measure of a Sovereign? Well...yeah...have this instead!
This is based off something that Gale references in a chapter of Measure, the number of which I cannot currently remember, possibly because it is four AM. However, it is pretty self explanatory, so please don't feel like you have to go and read that first if you haven't already read it.
Please forgive my lack of an intelligent rhyme scheme.
JustValiant1717, this is for you because you were interested in my Ballad of Tarva and Alambil that Edmund, for somewhat ambiguous reasons, sang at a tournament in Galma. Sorry I can't do poetry, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
The great feasting hall of Galma was full to overflowing—it had been a tournament day after all—and scarcely anyone took note of the ragged figure who slipped through the side entrance and scrambled rather clumsily onto the raised dais at the far end of the long room. He would scarcely have been noteworthy even if half the crowd had not been raucously drunk, but was even less so now.
His cloak was a rain-soaked patchwork of once bright scraps of cloth, stitched together piecemeal, and that would have been enough to mark him as a bard, even if he had not carried a harp in an oilskin case. He was not particularly tall, nor could he have been called short, and it was entirely possible that his lack of height came from his slumped shoulders and shuffling gait. His dark hair was cut raggedly, as if he had recently hacked at it with a thoroughly dull knife, (which, as a matter of fact he had), and he could not have looked more bedraggled if he had recently decided to sleep in a pile of hay, splash through a great deal of mud, and half tumble over a wall. (Which, as it turned out, was very nearly what he had been doing.)
The only person in the hall who had noticed him did not know any of what he had been doing, but he still very nearly pushed through the press of people to hurry the poor fellow away into the kitchens for a cup of tea and a warm meal. He was only stopped from doing so by a startled exclamation to his left.
The High King of Narnia was rather drunk, and Gale, for that was the Galman's name, supposed that was only to be expected given the strength of the wine the servants had been filling his goblet with all night. Currently however, he looked more alarmed than drunk, and Gale was certain he was the one who had spoken.
"I beg your pardon, your majesty?" His father would have cuffed him over the head for asking the High King to repeat himself, and Gale, who was barely drunk at all, considered himself very fortunate that his father was well out of ear shot.
The King peered at him and waved his hand vaguely. "What's that? Oh, it's nothing, I thought I recognised an acquaintance." He set his goblet down rather forcefully and turned back to staring at the newly arrived bard—his expression a strange mix of alarm and fury. "I was likely mistaken, my dear sister often reminds me that wine will lead to such mistakes." He was now scowling so fiercely that Gale felt rather concerned for the ragged newcomer's safety.
"I fear he'll have a good deal of trouble making himself heard over this racket," he said, hoping to distract Narnian from whatever was troubling him—preferably before his father returned and decided to blame Gale for Aslan only knew what.
The High King looked back at him and his scowl faded into something nearer to a smile. "Oh, I don't think he'll have much trouble on that count," he said, and sighed.
Gale doubted that anyone, let alone such an unassuming fellow, would have much luck silencing the rowdy group of Calormenes at the other end of the hall, but he chose not to voice the thought. His father had always been very clear that it was not his place to contradict a king, regardless of the fact that if all he planned came true then Gale would one day be a king.
The bard shuffled to the edge of the dais and sat down rather clumsily, legs dangling over the edge, and bent over his harp—the sound of strings being tuned utterly drowned out by the general uproar of nobles and soldiers who were deep into their cups. Then he played a clear, ringing cascade of notes and held up his hand, as if commanding silence.
A few heads turned and slowly the noise diminished as the men who had looked around to find the source of the sound elbowed their fellows and pointed. The hall was far from silent, but Gale supposed that a decent bard could conceivably make himself heard. Of course, that was not to say that this fellow was a decent bard, and he looked more likely to lapse into a fit of violent coughing than to burst into song.
Still, Gale did not miss the way the High King's shoulders straightened as he tensed, one hand gripping the hilt of dagger with enough force to turn his knuckles white.
"Do you know him, your majesty?" Gale asked quietly. But before the King could answer, the bard raised his head, cleared his throat and began to sing, the harp a quiet, haunting murmur of sound that nearly blended with his voice, making it seem to echo and fill the room.
To the sea she went, so fair and bright,
And he to a land of endless night,
Neither to return again.
Light the pyre,
Salute the ones who came before,
And pray we meet again on some distant shore.
I sing, my lords and ladies fair,
Of Tarva, just and bold, Lord of the Southern March,
And Alambil, his sister brave of heart and fair of face.
Of Frank's line descended,
Neither to the throne ascended.
In times of old,
And days of gold,
She was a maiden fair.
Alambil, her name was sighed, from lips of suitors bold.
But bold herself and discontent to live as some man's prize, the wise Alambil.
Oh, brother dear, she cried one fateful morn,
Wilt sail with me, beyond the distant sky,
To find adventures our fair Lord sends,
Or in failing die?
Sister mine, replied the restless prince,
I tire of these shores and of these empty chores,
To the distant lands I pledge my days,
Till Aslan call me home again.
Then sailed Tarva and Alambil,
On fateful seas, o'er restless waves, to a land of rolling sands.
There found a man who spoke of endless night and demon's plague upon the land.
Oh sister stay, and aid me in my quest,
Called Tarva to his sister fair.
For this adventure I have sought, since first I drew on breath.
Nay brother, called she back, and turned her face unto the distant sea.
Land farther yet still calleth out to me.
But have you care, without my aid, lest you in battle fall,
For long ago the Centaurs warned our lives are linked as one.
And sailed on her ship, o'er stranger waters yet,
While far behind her brother brave, a greater danger met.
In lands of sand and halls of stone, he found a force most foul,
And with the power of the fell, his blade in mortal combat crossed.
Fought they on, through night and day, and neither could prevail.
And under starless skies, Alambil yet did sail.
Came she then upon a land, enslaved by ice and snow,
And found a people there who caused her sorrow in her soul.
Like those she left behind in form,
Yet sad and silent, and in terror to their bones,
They lived within the thrall of a Selkie king.
On she went, the brave Alambil,
And under cloak of night into his halls she crept.
When morning came the king cried out in rage,
For in the dark the maiden fair had carried off the greatest treasure there.
Without his coat of pelts he was afraid,
And power held no more.
To this day the peace the lady brought endures.
But far across the sea and desert bleak, fought Tarva yet,
Though in his bones he feared all would come to naught.
Aslan lend me strength, called out the prince,
And then with fearful rage did strike the breath from out his foe.
But striking stumbled and upon the stones did fall, a dagger in his side.
Then cried out fair Alambil, and felt her brother's pain,
And sailed again for shores of sand through thunder and through rain.
She came upon him where he lay beneath the mountain's roots.
Oh brother dear, cried she, wilt sail with me, back to the distant shore of home,
To suitors bold and empty chores, and quiet days of gold?
Alas, fair sister, sighed the prince,
My sailing days are done,
But see where yonder lies the Fell oppressor of this land?
Adventures grand found I, and justice I have brought,
Not for a life of ease would I one moment trade.
With bloodied hands her tears he dried,
And smiling died.
Oh brother mine, wept the maiden fair,
Though peace I brought to distant shores,
Our deaths I still have caused.
Yet not would I have stayed at home,
Even had I known what sorrow sailing wrought.
And with a sigh she closed her eyes,
And by her twin she died.
On distant shores in golden halls,
There soon a cry was raised,
For in the sky there shown two brilliant flames.
Day and night the lights did blaze,
Till last the king did send, for the Centaur of the North.
What mean these lights, I charge you now to tell,
For in my soul I fear I know, but beg you contradict.
Oh king, the Centaur spoke, and gentle were his words.
Look for return of son and daughter gone no more.
For in the sky they shine,
And will till end of time.
By Aslan's grace, and for their deeds so brave,
They have in heavens earned their place.
And still they light the night,
Tarva, Lord of Justice, and Alambil, Lady of Peace.
The hall was silent. No one spoke, not even the drunkest of the Calormenes, no one moved—no one even seemed to breath until the last echo of the song had faded. Gale stared at the bard in wonder, and could not doubt that every one else was doing the same. He was quite certain he had heard the song before, it was quite a popular Narnian ballad, but he had never heard it sung half so well, and from a ragged, muddy, and thoroughly disreputable looking fellow at that.
"Lion's Mane!" The High King too was staring at the bard, but Gale thought there was something different in his gaze. There was wonder, to be sure, but also something akin to pain, and a strange sort of understanding. The Narnian shook his head and ran a hand across his eyes. "Lion's Mane," he said again, very quietly, and reached for his goblet.
Before Gale could ask him again if he knew the fellow however, the bard had taken up his harp again and was striking up a merry tune that Gale recognised as a Galman drinking song. This was met with roars of approval and many of the men present joined in, with varying degrees of success—both in keeping to the tune and in remembering the words.
It was not until some months later that Gale learned who it was who had sung so well and moved the High King to tears, but when he did he smiled wistfully into the ashes of an unlit hearth and wished with all his heart that he could have met King Edmund of Narnia.
Tada! This will eventually be told from Peter's point of view in a much longer, and more involved story, but until then I will be working on Measure, trying to ignore other ideas that won't seem to leave me alone, and eagerly awaiting reviews! Thanks for reading, and do leave a review to tell me what you thought!
Cheers,
A